


a woman scorned, you've been warned

by Angearia



Category: K-pop, Revenger - Miryo (Music Video)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mythology, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angearia/pseuds/Angearia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All bow before her and they call her Miryo the Revenger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a woman scorned, you've been warned

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Miryo's "Revenger" live performance](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XicLRdfbEWk).

“We are all the Goddess,” my mother told me every night, brushing my hair back and down, back and down, till it shimmered in waves crackling against my spine. The ends curled against my skin, prickling, hot as the flash of lightning in my burnished highlights.

 

My body was laid bare but for the stretch of white silk wrapped tight around my ribs and across my breasts and the matching cloth draping my hips, winking open to reveal my firm thighs. I sat before her, kneeling, my neck bent, eyes turned down, docilely awaiting her ministrations. Her loving hands would slide in and massage their way through my hair, her nails scoring my scalp to draw youthful blood to the surface.

 

Every night, we began this way, awakening my blood till it flowed through my hair and burned at the tips, firing against my pale skin, till I shone red under the silver light of the moon.

 

“We are all the Goddess,” my mother told me every night, proud and solemn, before she leaned close, her cheek pressed to mine, whispering, “It’s in your blood.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

He closed himself to me slowly, shuttering his eyes and withdrawing the softness of his fingertips. Gone were his lips sealed to mine, and the dewy kisses I drank as air. Gone were his palms questing across my skin, revealing new realms of fascination in each hand-drawn maze. The loving bite of his nails down my spine retreated, fading to a haunting memory, a phantom caress, the air cooling in his absence, leaving me wanting and wanton for his return.

 

He no longer worshipped the dimples in my knees, nor traced the delicate arches of my feet. He no longer kissed the heart of me and sucked till I fell replete upon his shoulders.

 

I mourned the loss of him, the way the sun mourns the moon as it cavorts in the earth’s shadow. And she was earthy and coarse, his new love, the one he turned to when he shared his smile, offering her the white cut of teeth I’d traced nightly with my tongue.

 

When he did return, in the daylight, his secrets were well hidden behind a dross smile and flat eyes. And yet I lay open to him still, awaiting the restoring arc of his regard, only his spark had been rekindled in darker matter.

 

He returned closed to me and resentful of my expectations. He returned with fists and nothing else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Numb and weary, I noted his sea change written upon me: the laceration in my scalp had bloodied my hair and my ribs were stamped blue by the curving toe of his boot.

 

“It will grow back,” they assured me as they shaved away my hair above my left ear, baring the wound lazily oozing blood, “and the bruises will fade,” they promised, laying a warm compress on my ribs.

 

Sick in body and spirit, I resisted their words of comfort for I was sick of fading away, and I discovered as I peeled back the veil of each fading disappointment, that I’d been fading for far too long. My fading wounds traced back to his fading love and long before that I beheld my fading memory of the blood coursing through my veins and its true purpose.

 

My wounds healed cleanly, for I was strong, and growing stronger as I took a blade to my scalp. I scraped off the first returning buds of silk, leaving my head half naked, my scar proudly displayed.

 

“For memory,” I whispered to my mother. “For blood.”

 

The blue ink I chose with care, the oscillating curves swerving across my ribs, sharpening the memory of breakage in my mending bones.

 

(For the hollow ache in my heart, I needed no reminder.)

 

“I will never love again,” I wrote into my skin, in constant refrain, and then turned my eyes to the men awaiting me, men I had ignored as I’d played at faithfulness and lost sight of all I knew in my blood.

 

They were made to love me: I would mold them as clay and devour their hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
